[ Rust doesn't go anywhere; it'd be a disservice to her. He smells her blood and feels the ensuing silence, the desolation that's Gildor's mind in the absence of music. He inflicts on himself the memory of the boy's horror at finding her dead, the sensation of something ruptured, something forsaken.
The ghostly feel of her hands in his.
He retches, sourness at the back of his throat. Spits. ] (Better?) [ A sincere question. ]
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The ghostly feel of her hands in his.
He retches, sourness at the back of his throat. Spits. ] ( Better? ) [ A sincere question. ]